


Coordinate Geometry

by deepsix



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Other tags to be added, Pining, rating is very much going to change, the very last night before the rest of their lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21912712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deepsix/pseuds/deepsix
Summary: Aziraphale isn't very good at waiting. Luckily, Crowley has some ideas. (It's just sleeping. It's always just sleeping.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 42
Collections: South Downs Holiday-ish Exchange





	Coordinate Geometry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hollybennett123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollybennett123/gifts).



> HOLLY, I am so sorry that I a) totally failed at following any of your prompts and b) couldn't get to the porn for you. BUT I WILL! The next bit is all porn, and you may cheerfully murder me if it doesn't materialize. 💜💜💜

The closer they got to London, the more anxious Crowley grew. He'd felt quite calm when he'd made the invitation, but inviting Aziraphale to his flat and actually having Aziraphale in his flat were two very different things.

It wasn't that Crowley didn't trust him. But the risk of having an angel in his flat, in his _territory_ had always seemed too dangerous. What if head office called on him while Aziraphale was there? The Arrangement would be discovered for sure, and then what? What would they do to him? What would they do to _Aziraphale_? It didn't bear thinking about.

But that danger was past now, wasn't it? They had been discovered at last, and whatever punishment they would receive wouldn't be because they had been (consorting, fraternizing) _friends_. Being caught with an angel in his flat was really the least of his problems now.

But that didn't mean there wasn't still _a_ danger. Only, it was that they were going to be alone - truly alone in a way that they had never been before in their existence. Only rarely had they ever been in private, preferring to meet in public places where there could be plausible deniability should anyone ask (no one ever did); and even then — even in the back of Aziraphale's bookshop where Hell found no quarter, there had always been the possibility that someone, somewhere was watching.

But no one was watching, not anymore. The only ones here were Crowley and Aziraphale.

Unsurprisingly, Aziraphale didn't seem any more at ease. Though he'd taken a seat on Crowley's supremely uncomfortable sofa when invited, and accepted a glass of wine when offered, he'd also jumped up and paced the length of the sitting room no less than twice by now, as though an obligate worrier.

"Oh, sit down," Crowley said when he'd started in on a third go round.

"I can't," said Aziraphale, although he obviously could. He wrung his hands, then turned from Crowley to the window and then back, as though undecided about something.

But as far as Crowley was concerned, there was very little decision-making left to be had.

He sighed and patted the sofa next to him, as though Aziraphale was a cat who only needed some mild coaxing. "Come on, tell me what this is really about."

Aziraphale fluttered indecisively one more time, then all at once gave up and sagged into the seat beside Crowley. "You know what they're going to do to us," he said.

"Pretty good idea, yeah."

Aziraphale turned to him, all seriousness. "And you're not the slightest bit anxious?"

Crowley shrugged in what he hoped was a nonchalant way, although he was having trouble telling anymore. "The opposite," he conceded. "But it seems inevitable at this point, so why bother worrying about it?" He didn't bother to add that he had far greater things to worry about at this very moment — for example, whether it had meant anything, the speed with which Aziraphale had eventually agreed to come to Crowley's, the ease with which Aziraphale had taken his hand on the bus.

If it hadn't, Aziraphale would likely have found those concerns rather too inconsequential to express.

"Because it might not be inevitable," said Aziraphale. "You don't think that final prophecy was meant for us? That there might be some way out?"

Crowley made an inarticulate noise. "Eh, possibly," he said at last. "But I can't see any sense in it, and if you haven't come up with something yet, then I don't see much in it for us. You _are_ the clever one," he added.

"So that's it?" said Aziraphale, and sprang up from the sofa all over again. "You just want to give up, after all that?"

Crowley shrugged. "I didn't say that. I just think…" He trailed off, frankly uncertain about what he did in fact think. "I just think that if our destruction is part of the ineffable plan after all, there's not a whole lot we can do about it, is there?"

"And so you think we should just wait for it to happen?"

"Do you have a better idea?" Crowley asked. He took what he thought was an increasingly convincingly nonchalant sip of his wine and waited for Aziraphale to argue with him.

Aziraphale stopped mid-pace and turned back to Crowley. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before finally giving up, taking the chair across from Crowley this time. He picked up his wine glass from the coffee table, and gave Crowley a long look over the rim of it before putting it down again without taking a drink. "I'm not very good at waiting," he admitted.

"Luckily for you," said Crowley, "it's one of my specialties."

Aziraphale sighed. "And what do you suggest I do then?"

"Well," said Crowley. "Normally I'd suggest we drink ourselves stupid, but with the way you've been nursing your wine tonight I rather think we're past that. If all you want is a shortcut, you could always try sleeping." He gave Aziraphale a wry kind of look. "I know it's not one of your Things, but it makes the time pass more quickly, that's for sure. Like hitting fast forward on all the bad bits of life."

"Is that why you do it then?"

Crowley made a noise. "That, and dreaming isn't half bad."

"You know," said Aziraphale, "I don't think I've ever had a dream before."

"Ngk. Right," Crowley said awkwardly, his brain having stalled out imagining Aziraphale dreaming for the first time in his flat. "In any case, I'm going to bed. If — if you want to join me, you're— well. You're welcome to it."

And then Crowley, knowing that cowardice was the better part of valour, fled, leaving his own glass of wine still half full.

* * *

Crowley had not, it must be said, actually expected Aziraphale to join him join him. If anything, he had expected Aziraphale to agonize over it for some time before realizing he'd left it too long to bother Crowley for anything, and then giving up and kipping on the sofa, if he bothered at all. At best, he thought perhaps Aziraphale might poke his head into Crowley's darkened bedroom and ask for a pair of pyjamas — too spoiled to miracle up his own, since at least that way he could pretend he didn't know they weren't real material objects — and maybe plead boredom when he failed to fall asleep on his own terms.

What he had not expected was for Aziraphale to follow him after only a few moments. He wasn't used to Aziraphale taking his suggestions, and certainly not recently; and so turning around to find Aziraphale in his bedroom was enough to put him back on edge. It made him wonder all over again what Aziraphale had _meant_ , taking his hand, following him here. He'd known where he stood with Aziraphale for six thousand years, but the last five days had thrown all of that into question, and Crowley couldn't imagine the answer was the one he wanted.

He tried to ignore the churning in his gut as he climbed into bed, turning out the lights with a click of his fingers. He closed his eyes when that did nothing to hide Aziraphale's nerves, and turned his back to the room for some modicum of privacy. But nothing would cover the snap of Aziraphale's own miracle — had he actually manifested a change of clothes? — or the soft whisper of fabric as Aziraphale moved towards the bed and slid under the covers. 

It was probably too much to hope that would be the end of it.

"It just seems very — lonely," Aziraphale said, after they had lain there in silence for some time, as though picking up some dropped thread of conversation. "In the dark you seem very far away."

Crowley turned over to face Aziraphale, bad idea though it might have been. "I'm right here, angel," he said.

"Yes, I know," said Aziraphale. "But it's not really the distance, you see. It's— well. You recall when you slept the last half of the nineteenth century? It reminds me of that, when you were just so very far away and inaccessible."

Crowley wasn't sure how to respond to that. "I'm right here, angel," he repeated. "You can always wake me up if it's not working for you."

"Yes, I suppose so," Aziraphale agreed.

He was silent for such a long time that Crowley thought perhaps he'd finally drifted off, and that when he spoke again Crowley nearly leapt out of his skin.

"Crowley," he said. "Would you mind terribly if— I just thought perhaps it would help if— if, if you held me?"

"Held you?" Crowley echoed over the hammering of his heart. 

"Of course, not if it would make you uncomfortable," Aziraphale added quickly. 

"Come here," said Crowley.

"Perhaps like this," Aziraphale suggested, and turned his back to Crowley. Then he reached back with one hand and touched Crowley's shoulder, and followed the line of his arm down to his hand until he could pull Crowley's arm around him. Crowley let him, not wanting to seem too eager, but as his hand came to rest against Aziraphale's belly it was all he could do to remain still, not to flatten his palm against his body or tangle his fingers in the fabric of his pyjamas. His fingers fairly itched, but he let Aziraphale take the lead, feeling Aziraphale relax back against him, his body going soft.

Crowley didn't know how long they laid there.

He had imagined this kind of situation too often for it to pass by unremarked. Maybe not this, exactly— but this, a moment of quiet intimacy that Aziraphale had not just allowed, but _asked for_ , free from Heaven's observation. 

But it was impossible to lie there and not think _what if_. What if Aziraphale didn't just want to be held? What if, in the same way he'd been waiting for Crowley to touch him, he was waiting for Crowley to _touch him_? What if he wanted to be kissed? Or more? The thought of more chased itself around Crowley's head, winding up the possibilities: how Aziraphale might turn under his arm; how he might sigh into Crowley's mouth; how his hands might feel, strong and dry and soft on Crowley's skin; how willingly he might give himself over to desire. How what he desired might actually be Crowley.

Aziraphale let out a soft sound that might have been a snore, might have been a sigh, and shifted softly. His palm curled over the back of Crowley's hand, his shoulder pressing into Crowley's chest as he sagged against him. 

The sudden physicality between them drew Crowley up short. Aziraphale had lain still and silent for so long that Crowley assumed he was asleep, but the sudden shift in his breathing reminded him that Aziraphale might not even know how to sleep, if he'd never dreamt before.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said. It was soft but very clear in the quiet.

"Mm," Crowley agreed, not trusting himself to words after the way his mind had wandered.

Aziraphale shifted again, and this time Crowley thought he was going to get up. Thought maybe he'd felt something — the hammering of Crowley's heart, the heat pooling between his legs — and realised that whatever innocent comfort he sought, he wouldn't find it with Crowley.

But instead he turned in the half-circle of Crowley's arm, and drew his hand up to rub over the sharp curve of Crowley's shoulder. Then he turned his face to Crowley's and, fumbling in the dark, he brushed the cool tip of his nose against Crowley's.

Crowley forgot to breathe.

 _What are you doing_ , he asked, but he'd also forgotten how to speak. Aziraphale's eyes were very dark and liquid, and he didn't stop. He kept _looking_ at Crowley, and rubbing their noses together, soft and deliberate, and tracing shapes with his thumb through the whisper-soft cloth of Crowley's sleeve. It was of course obvious what he was doing, but what was less obvious was _why_.

Aziraphale had never shown him the slightest affection before, but after the whirlwind of these last few days — _there is no our side — it's over_ — Crowley finally found himself beginning to hope.

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale said at last. His mouth was so close that Crowley could feel the warmth of his breath, and could all but taste him if he just parted his lips. But still he didn't dare.

"What is it, angel." 

"I still feel as though I can't — quite — get close enough to you. You feel...very far away in the dark."

"'M right here, angel," said Crowley, though his mind was already supplying suggestions on how to get closer. And surely — surely Aziraphale knew how that sounded? But surely Aziraphale likewise understood that if that was what he meant, then he had to be the one to ask for it: Crowley had made every overture so far, and he didn't have it in him for another refusal. Another rejection.

"Yes," said Aziraphale. "But I feel — after today, after being discorporated and then reincorporated — I feel it's difficult being apart from you. I can't stand it."

Crowley's heart throbbed, an aching pulse of heat that made his ribs feel close to bursting. His eyes cut away, unable to keep looking at the earnest glossiness of Aziraphale's eyes, unable to look anywhere else.

"'M right here," he repeated, hoping that Aziraphale understood. He couldn't make another offer — just couldn't. But if Aziraphale asked, well. He was _right there_. All Aziraphale had to do was reach out and take him.

Thankfully, he seemed to understand that, at last.

Crowley hadn't known what to expect from kissing Aziraphale. If he'd be sweet or saucy; if he'd be strait-laced and cautious, or playful, naughty, what. It had all seemed so — remote, and even in his lowest fantasies, Crowley tried not to speculate, not really.

So he was unprepared for it. Unprepared for the way that Aziraphale's eyelids fluttered shut, his fingers tightening on Crowley's shoulder as if he might try to get away. And completely unprepared for the soft, shuddering intake of Aziraphale's breath as his lips found Crowley's, uncertain but deliberate.

Aziraphale went on kissing him like that — soft sucking sips at Crowley's slack mouth, as though testing it out. And as he went on, Aziraphale's kisses grew harder, wetter as he sucked at Crowley's lower lip, slid the very tip of his tongue along the seam of Crowley's mouth; and yet still Crowley couldn't do anything but lie there, accepting it, taking it, _wanting_ it, but uncertain of what was being offered. He felt paralyzed by the magnitude of _what if_.

If this was just some new form of angelic affection — he didn't think he could take it.

But Aziraphale didn't stop. He got his hands in Crowley's hair, and Crowley felt himself hauled inexorably into an open-mouthed kiss at last. Aziraphale's mouth was so hot, his tongue so soft, and Crowley was flooded with cautious, helpless _want_.

"Angel," Crowley said, barely daring to breathe. He felt wide-eyed and frantic, but he had to know. "What are you doing?"

They were still so close, and Aziraphale brushed his nose against Crowley's again, the touch itself soft as a kiss.

"I love you," Aziraphale said.

Crowley closed his eyes. He couldn't think of a single thing to say: it was nothing his imagination had ever prepared him for. He had wanted, of course, but like the taste of Aziraphale's mouth, it had never seemed possible.

"Crowley, please," said Aziraphale. "I am trying to tell you something. Don't…"

He trailed off. 

"Don't what?" Crowley asked.

But Aziraphale said, "Don't tell me I've missed my chance. Not now. Not after all this."

He felt Aziraphale trace the line of his jaw, then sweep the pad of his thumb across his cheekbone, a touch that made Crowley's chest throb, aching. He knew he ought to say something — anything — but his mind supplied nothing but Aziraphale's words repeated back at him in increasing tones of incredulity.

Missed his _chance_?

"Please," Aziraphale said again.

Crowley swallowed. He'd spent thousands of years considering how this confession might go, and here he was, fucking it up. But the enormity of it — realizing that perhaps he hadn't been alone after all, that maybe Aziraphale had been waiting for something too, the same way Crowley'd been waiting for him — it was too much to expect Crowley to pull off anything approaching smooth.

"You haven't," he managed eventually. Then, screwing up his courage, he opened his eyes and said it again: "You haven't."

Aziraphale's answering smile was radiant.


End file.
